


West Coast Smoker

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, M/M, Musicians, Tattooed Stiles, Trans Male Character, Trans Stiles, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 08:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4341248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s this feeling Derek gets when he sees Stiles. It feels like slow pull of the full moon on an ocean tide, bringing a song to the tip of his tongue. One that Derek hasn’t written, but that he needs to write; fingers itching to strum his guitar, voice begging to sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	West Coast Smoker

**Author's Note:**

> Brook prompted me with "I'm a bit worried you're a sex addict", so this happened. Thanks to Kat for the beta<3

Stiles stumbles onto his balcony half past noon, cigarette hanging off his lips. His sweatpants sit teasingly in the dip below his hipbones, right above where the thick, dark line of his happy trail spreads out and down. There’s a pair of swallows riding the curve of his hips. Derek’s pretty sure they’re recent, but with the amount of ink on Stiles’ skin, it’s hard to tell what’s fresh and what Derek just hasn’t noticed yet.

Derek’s on the far side of his own balcony, grasping his guitar, toying with ideas and wording. All of it goes out his head when he sees Stiles, though, unable to concentrate on anything else in that moment.

There’s this feeling Derek gets when he sees Stiles. It feels like slow pull of the full moon on an ocean tide, bringing a song to the tip of his tongue. One that Derek hasn’t written, but that he needs to write; fingers itching to strum his guitar, voice begging to sing. 

Stiles has been a feeling under Derek’s skin since Derek laid eyes on him, half naked in basketball shorts, arms and torso sleeved in tattoos, sweaty from running or working out, earbuds jammed in his ears, blasting electronica that Derek could hear easily. Derek was stepping out of his apartment while Stiles was stepping into his. They acknowledged each other’s presence with a brief nod, but their eyes locked and held until Derek dragged his gaze away. It felt like a fish hook in his spine, trying to reel him back.

The same feeling was there the second time he saw Stiles, slumped against his door in pajama pants and a shirt with a collar so wide it slid slightly off his broad shoulders, giving Derek a peek of a cluster of daisies over the curve of his deltoid. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and was scrolling through his phone with the other. 

If Derek was being honest with himself, he hadn’t stopped thinking about the guy since the first time he saw him.

“Do you ever miss the paper?” Stiles had asked, as Derek walked by him. Derek froze and looked down at him, confused. “If I had the newspaper, this wouldn’t be as weird.”

“It’s not that weird,” Derek ventured, even though it was. Why would Stiles come out and sit in the doorway to check the news when he could stay inside? Stiles smiled up at him, like he knew that’s what he was thinking. It was lopsided, a smart-ass twist to his mouth, almost mocking but softer, somehow. 

“You’re Derek Hale,” Stiles said, with a curious tilt to his head, eyes keen on Derek’s face. It wasn’t surprising that he knew who Derek was. A lot of people knew who Derek was. 

For some reason, though, it made Derek feel two steps behind. This was before Derek knew Stiles’ name. It was when he was the Neighbor With Tats and That Punk Guy Next Door. In a desperate bid for knowledge, Derek had looked at his mailbox. According to the plate under it, he was “S. Stilinski”, which wasn’t completely forthcoming. 

It took Derek too long to answer, trying to decide whether or not he was going to tell Stiles that he had snooped, curious about the person next door to him. In addition to seeing him post-run, shirtless and sweaty, Derek _heard_ him often. For luxury apartments they have surprisingly thin walls and Stiles, well --

“Or you’re a doppleganger or a clone? I mean, your face is a lot like Derek Hale’s,” Stiles had said, eyebrows slipping with a frown that was more thoughtfully considerate than confused --

Stiles sings when he’s showering. He doesn’t have a chart-topping voice. There’s more of a punk revolution, ska quality to it that Derek’s never been able to actually appreciate in recorded music. If he’s being honest, though, his apartment is silent more often than not when Stiles showers.

Other times, he --

“I, uh, am Derek Hale,” Derek said, swallowing --

The first time it happened, Derek wasn’t sure what had happened. Showertime was silent of singing, but then there was banging and thudding and Derek didn’t actually know what it was until Stiles _moaned_. Then, he came to the conclusion that Stiles was having sex in the shower. _Then_ , he realized Stiles was _alone_. That made it so much worse. 

Derek fled to the porch with his guitar so he didn’t have to hear any of that anymore, but the idea still plagued him. Stiles probably had one of those toys you suctioned to the shower wall, and Derek felt invasive just thinking about it. He felt hot all over, wrong for listening in, but the walls were so thin --

“Stiles,” is what Stiles said, holding out his hand. Derek took it, catalogued the warmth of Stiles’ hand. His touch made Derek feel like he was about to fall off the edge of a cliff, sensation tunneling down to the skin-on-skin contact. There and gone in an instant as their grips released.

“S. Stilinski?” Derek said, raising an eyebrow. The smile Stiles gave him felt like a secret being shared, pleased and warm. 

“That’s me,” he said, toasting Derek with his coffee cup. 

Now, Stiles lights up and takes a drag before he even acknowledges Derek’s presence, eyes soft around the edges, tired. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but Stiles probably didn’t get in until at least 3AM last night. 

Derek ran into him after his afternoon run, leaving for his show in tight black pants and a studded vest, miles of skin on display. 

It reminded Derek that he would have already asked Stiles out if he could. What spurred his decision to leave his record company in the first place -- 

“Writing?” Stiles asks. His voice is gruff with smoke and what sounds like a long night of yelling into a microphone, hyping up the crowd. Derek can imagine the look of concentration on Stiles’ face as his hands moved deftly over the soundboard, tweaking the treble and bass and whatever else DJs do when they’re in the booth. 

“The guitar’s just company,” Derek says, strumming out a few nonsense chords while Stiles waits for him to elaborate. There’s a black and blue raven on his neck that flexes when he inhales, wings wrapped around the front and back of his neck like the grip of a lover’s hand. “I’m trying to figure out how to break my contract with my record company.”

“Why the fuck would you want to do that?” Stiles demands, leaning his hip against the railing of his balcony. There’s only a foot of space between their balconies, little rectangles of concrete surrounded by thin wrought iron railing. Derek can see Stiles’ bare feet on the concrete, the litter of neo-traditional tattoos on his legs. His toes flex and his tendons shift as he waits for Derek to answer.

“They won’t let me come out,” Derek says, trying to ignore the way his stomach swoops. Coming out to someone new is always a process you can’t anticipate the result of. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything immediately. Derek sees his throat work around a swallow, his eyebrows going up in surprise. His mouth opens and closes with a few failed attempts to say anything. As he waits, Derek’s palms start sweating against the neck of the guitar, feeling unsure for the first time in the face of Stiles’ silence. Stiles usually reacts immediately. 

Derek had a yelling match with his record company a while back about his latest record, and the creative autonomy they refused to give him. He came to them with 12 songs constructed perfectly to his personal standards. They wanted to throw out more than half of them and bring in an extra songwriter on the rest. 

“Record company bullshit?” Stiles asked, when Derek came out onto his patio for air. Stiles was leaning against the rail, as usual, a cigarette in his mouth, as usual. He quirked an eyebrow and took a drag before offering it to Derek. “You know the walls are really thin.”

At that point, Derek already knew Stiles was a DJ that worked the underground scene. After their second encounter, Derek used Google to do a fact check and came up with a website and booking details for Stiles and someone named Scott. It turns out they were the most popular rave DJs in the area. Derek hadn’t met Scott yet, but could imagine the type of person who would be the other half of Stiles’ brain. 

Being a freelance DJ meant Stiles didn’t have to deal with a record company or controlling music execs. He got to create completely uninhibited. Derek was envious of that more than anything. 

Derek was still edgy after dealing with people telling him how to make music, especially when coupled with having to listen to Stiles in the shower this morning. Not singing, but moaning, which seemed to be something he did whenever he felt like it, instead of reserving Stiles Time for when people were usually sleeping, as a courtesy. Not that Derek slept at what would be considered normal times, but it would be the thought that counted.

“Yeah, I know the walls are thin,” Derek bit out in frustration. “I hear _you_ all the time.” 

Stiles blinked at him, cigarette burning down between his fingers. 

“Really? I use headphones when I’m doing beats,” Stiles said, frowning and biting his lip. 

It was always easy to imagine Stiles hunched over his computer, table cluttered with various stimulants to help him through. A large pair of headphones perched on his head, feet and hands tapping out beats before inputting them into the computer program, head bobbing as he played the track back.

“You sing in the shower,” Derek said, sounding grumpy about it. He was grumpy about it. The singing, the masurbating. The idea of Stiles in the shower at all, much less orgasming, as well. He did orgasm, too, every time. Derek knew what it sounded like, knew that he got quiet right before, that the thudding got faster. That when he came it was a choked sound, a moan of complete relief. “Among other things.”

Stiles didn’t get it at first, face blank. Realization dawned and he -- he burst out laughing. It was one of the most gorgeous sights Derek had seen, Stiles’ mouth open wide, eyes twinkling in amusement, head thrown back. His skin was blotchy red, betraying his embarrassment. 

“Oh shit,” Stiles said, biting his lip. “That’s terrible, I’m sorry. No, not really, but I should be.”

“I'm a bit worried you're a sex addict,” Derek said, but it didn’t have any heat. The sound of Stiles’ laughter took the edge off, made him breathe easier. Stiles didn’t hesitate, just shot back, cocky grin and all:

“Maybe I am.”

Now, he’s staring at Derek like he doesn’t quite know what to say. Derek hasn’t ever seen that expression on Stiles’ face before. Stiles always knows what to say. 

“I’m pansexual,” Derek clarifies, lump in his throat. One that he knows shouldn’t even be there, considering --

Stiles isn’t _just_ a DJ. Stiles is a figurehead for the LGBTQA+ music scene. Countless numbers of his shows are fundraisers to funnel money back into the community. The shows help rejected kids get on their feet or help homeless youth or help fund aid for transgender transitioning. One keyword search on Google pulled up a list a mile long of organizations that Stiles and Scott have raised money for. Not only are they a big deal in the queer community, but they’re edging mainstream, making the radio. 

The more popular they get, the more influential their voice is. They way both Scott and Stiles talk about queer issues makes Derek want to talk about them too. It makes him feel like a coward, hiding behind a contract even though it was never his choice in the first place. He was naive to think that he would _gain_ autonomy the more popular he became, when everyone knew it was the exact opposite.

“ _Really_?” he asks, one large exhale. It moves through his body as he slumps against the railing, relieved almost. Derek isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean. 

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” 

“I just didn’t think you’d,” Stiles struggles, hand fluttering in Derek’s direction. “You’re so wholesome.” Derek snorts through his nose at that. He spent a weekend in Vegas with an 8-ball of cocaine and a guy he picked up on the strip once. He’s anything but wholesome.

“That really doesn’t factor into whether or not you’re queer,” Derek points out. It’s Stiles who laughs this time, spots of red on his cheek. It makes Derek want to bite him where his skin blushes, his cheeks and neck and chest. Stiles’ adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. Derek wants to bite that, too. 

“It does factor into whether you break your contract to expose yourself to the world as a homosexual,” Stiles says, scratching his neck. The action flashes Derek the side of his wrist, a thick black equal sign tattooed under the delicate bone. Derek wants to bite that, too. “Besides, I pretty much figured you fell under one of the acronyms anyway.”

“Why’s that?” Derek asks, frowning, trying to think of a time when he was obvious. Honestly, Derek doubts he’s been subtle in checking Stiles out, but some people are more oblivious to that than others. 

“With the --” Stiles waves a hand down his body. “When you gave me my shot. There was a very distinct lack of judgement that suggests you’d dealt with it before.”

Derek remembers that vividly. It was a day of writing for Derek. Most of his time was spent hunched over his guitar, scribbling and scribbling and forgetting to eat. When he finally pulled himself out of it, it was close to sunset and the apartment next door was bumping a low bassline that reverberated through the walls so hard it was shaking his coffee tin. 

When he managed to make his way out onto the patio to smoke, there was a small congregation of people on Stiles’ patio with joints and beers. Stiles was leaning against the rail closest to Derek, eyes bright with alcohol, head lulling when he laughed. 

When he saw Derek, he scrambled up, making everyone on his patio laugh at him, loud and bright. Stiles ignored them. He leaned over his banister to talk to Derek about what he was writing. 

“How’d you know I was writing?” Derek asked, taking the proffered cigarette from Stiles’ hand, gaze focused on the heart Stiles recently got tattooed on his thumb. It was preferable to the rest of his knuckle tattoos. They read “sick bro”. Stiles told him it was the result of he losing a dare to Scott on his 18th birthday, but Derek still isn't sure he believes him. 

“You haven’t been out here all day,” Stiles said, with an easy shrug and a tipsy grin. “Usually that means you’re writing.” 

The fact that Stiles noticed anything about Derek’s habits made Derek’s stomach clench up with excitement, unable to hold his smile back. He was going to respond, flirt, something, but Stiles’ phone alarm went off, startling them both. 

Stiles flailed and fell back, hands on his phone.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles said, groaning. 

“What?”

“You’re too drunk for it!” someone said, leaning over. Derek recognized Scott’s face from Google. Somehow, he was so much _more_ in person. The dimples, the smile, the way he looked Derek over like he knew exactly who Derek was. “Have Derek do it.”

Apparently, he did know exactly who Derek was. 

“Do what?” Derek asked, trying to catch up while Stiles moaned about day drinking and being an idiot.

“My injection,” Stiles said, rubbing his hand over his face. “It's just a shot in my thigh, but, like --”

“This one time,” a girl piped up on the other side of Scott. Later, Derek would get introduced to her as Scott’s girlfriend, Kira, but he didn’t know who she was back then. She had no problem talking to him like she knew him, though. “He stuck it in his leg all weird, and it went straight through the top layer of skin --”

“It was _gnarly_ ,” Scott said, high fiving Stiles. Stiles met his hand with a confused expression before turning back to Derek, teeth digging into his bottom lip. 

“If you’re squeamish, you don’t have to,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s just hormones, skipping a dose isn’t going to make me grow tits or anything, it’s fine.” 

“I promise I can do it,” Derek said, sincerely. “Straight into the muscle, right? No angling or veins.”

“Administered shots before, Hale?” Stiles teased, but he looked convinced, body language loosening up. Derek didn’t realized how tense Stiles was until he slumped forward again, forearms resting on the railing. 

“My mom used to do the B vitamin shots, but she hated to do them herself.”

That made Stiles laugh outright, throwing his head back. Derek couldn’t stop staring at the unrestrained wildness of the action. 

“Yeah, it’s something like that,” Stiles said, eyes back on Derek, an edge of seriousness that was captivating in a way Derek couldn’t name. 

“Something,” Derek agreed. The smile he gave Derek was blinding. The way Stiles looked at him with unrestrained happiness solidified Derek's crush. 

In the next instant, Stiles was jumping over people's limbs to go inside and darting back out with a box that he handed to Derek over the railing before shooing Derek out of the way so he could stretch his long legs across the gap. It was uncoordinated and completely without grace, but Stiles managed without face planting, landing in front of Derek with a ‘tah-duh!’, arms outstretched. 

It took every bit of self control not to grab Stiles and kiss him all over. Instead, he smiled in response and let Stiles get all the stuff ready. There was some swearing and squinting; Derek had to bring out his phone so Stiles could have a light to work by, but it didn’t take too long for Stiles to hold out the syringe to him.

“Thanks for doing this,” Stiles said, bracing himself on Derek’s shoulder so he could balance his leg on the seat of one of Derek’s patio chairs. 

The only thought Derek had was that it was the first time Stiles had actually touched him. The weight of it was nice, the closeness. Derek hadn’t realized he craved physical contact until the moment Stiles touched him. 

“It’s not a problem,” Derek said, maybe a beat too late. Stiles didn’t call him out on it, too busy peeling open his pants and pushing them down to reveal a stretch of inked skin for Derek to stick the needle in, fingers moving on his briefs to pull them up as well. 

“Just ease it in,” Stiles said. “Nice and slow, straight in.”

“You’re not helping,” Derek said. The way Stiles said it was almost suggestive. Derek couldn’t be so close to Stiles, breathing in his cologne and feeling his _body heat_ , while Stiles talked like that. It wasn’t possible. 

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” Stiles said, sounding amused beyond belief. He did actually shut up, though, while Derek slid the needle into his muscle and pressed down on the syringe. When Derek handed it back to him, Stiles took it, hand over Derek’s. With a tug, he brought Derek in close and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Thanks,” he said, grinning at Derek like it was a private joke while butterflies accosted his stomach and Stiles’ friends whooped at them from his patio. 

“I don’t know anyone who’s transgender besides you,” Derek admits, feeling the weight of the word on his tongue. Stiles smiles, private and pleased. “But I know _of_ it. I’m closeted, not ignorant.”

“Good,” Stiles says with another quirk of his lips. “So, back to the issue at hand. Why are you abandoning a contract that will guarantee you _thousands of dollars_ , in order to out yourself and probably lose a considerable amount of respect for you as a musician?”

“I want to date,” Derek answers with a shrug. It’s more than that. It’s openly being part of the community, being a pillar of support. It’s hard to do that when he has to hide who he is. 

“Then why not do that thing where you date, but act like you’re just friends with whoever you’re dating? Closeted dating.” Stiles makes a disgusted face, as if the mere thought is offense. To someone who’s as open as Stiles is, it probably is offensive. 

“I’ve never been out, I want to experience that,” Derek says. He strums a few chords before he looks up again and meets Stiles’ interested gaze. “Besides, the person I want to ask on a date is out.”

“Really?” Stiles asks. The look on his face is casual, but there’s something -- the way his nose twitches, lips peeling back the slightest bit to reveal his teeth -- he’s ready to be disappointed. Derek smirks.

“Yeah, out and active in the community,” Derek says. “Pretty popular on the music scene around here.”

Stiles’ eyebrows jump up, curious.

“He’s really talented, actually,” Derek continues, putting down his guitar so he can stand and stretch. He takes his time shaking out his muscles, attempting to keep his body language casual while his insides feel like a tangled mess of anticipation. “He’s a DJ.”

Derek looks over to Stiles again, watches as he puts the pieces together, mouth dropping open in surprise. Derek wonders how he missed Stiles’ pierced tongue. Maybe he noticed, but purposely forgot so he didn’t torture himself with the thought. 

“What? Really?” Stiles asks incredulously, after nearly a minute of staring at Derek. Derek thought he was going to have to be even more blatant than that, worried Stiles wouldn’t get it. 

“Really,” Derek says. The word isn’t even fully out of his mouth before Stiles is climbing over his railing and onto Derek’s porch. There’s hands on his arms, and Stiles is pulling him in close.

“Wait, _me_ , right?” he asks, pink and breathless. The tension in the air feels like a livewire. “I mean, I’m assuming me. Unless you mean Scott, then this is super embarrassing, but --”

“Yeah, you, asshole,” Derek says, cutting him off before he can work himself up. Stiles smiles wide. It’s the most beautiful thing Derek has ever seen. “Want to go on a date?”

“After you break up with your record company,” Stiles says, firmly. His head whips around to survey the area, as if he just remembered they’re outside on Derek’s patio. “We should --?” Stiles rolls his neck and jerks his head at Derek’s apartment, making Derek tip his head back and laugh before dragging Stiles in after him. 

“After I break up with my record company,” Derek says, firmly, once they’re inside. “Then, we date.”

“Definitely,” Stiles exhales, fingers scrambling against Derek’s arms again, holding him there with the weight of his touch. Their eyes meet and Derek feels the dam breaking inside of him, all the want pouring out. He wonders if Stiles can feel it, too. 

The air around them becomes heavy with tension, and all Derek can do is wrap his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, fingerprints lining up with the raven’s wings, and pull him in for a searing kiss. 


End file.
